


Home

by Tak138



Series: Commissions [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Femdom, Happy Ending?, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kinda, Master/Slave, Matriarchy, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27867737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tak138/pseuds/Tak138
Summary: Niven has to decide where he belongs.
Series: Commissions [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1287251
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Pat for beta-ing
> 
> Commission for Im_Chris

Svaia burst through the door, nearly knocking it from its hinges, and beheld the disaster before her. 

The bedroom was a disaster. A chair lay in pieces strew across the floor, among the remnants of glassware and a few decorative vases. 

_Evidence of a struggle._

The guards hadn't been exaggerating. 

"Did anyone hear anything?" She asked, voice quiet as death. 

"No, Commander ," said one of her most senior guards. Svaia thought her name might have been Nia. "As I said, they did not appear for their evening duties. When the Second came to search for them, he found this."

Svaia wet her lips, her eyes flickering to the open window on the bedroom's far side, and then to the bathing room door, wide open, with the candles still burning inside. Her mind moved at a slow grind, fumbling to understand what exactly had occurred.

"Have you searched the room yet?"

"Not yet, Commander," Nia replied, voice soft, "We did a cursory look over, but I sent for you immediately."

Again Svaia's eyes went to the bathing room, her hand falling to the hilt of her blade at her side. 

_Not clear. Stay alert._

"They wouldn't just— _leave_ ," she spat, "They're better trained than that. Someone must have taken them."

Nia nodded, pressing a hand to her chest. "I have women looking, Commander. If they're here, we will find them."

Svaia took a few steps into the room, glass crunching underfoot. Just this morning she'd woken with her boys under each arm. They'd both still be asleep. Einri with his face in her neck, Niven with his back to her. The day had been warm, the sun streaming through the great windows, the sea shining beyond. 

It was difficult to reconcile that image with this one. 

Nia strode over to the open window, peering below. Svaia knew from her initial scouting of the bedroom that the only thing beyond was a sheer, seven-story drop onto the cliffside. There was a very slim chance anyone had actually used it as an escape route. Not with two heavy, struggling captives. And her boys _had_ struggled, she knew. 

It was then that her eyes landed on a smear of red across the floor, almost luminescent against the tile. Something cold and heavy pooled in her stomach, threatening to drag her down, down, _down._

_Not enough_ , she told herself, _not enough to kill_. 

Svaia forced herself to breathe, forced herself to steady. She was the commander of the fiercest army in the north, queen of these Isles. She would not let a dribble of blood poison her thoughts. 

Her boys had lost more blood at her own hands, anyways. 

"I want everyone under scrutiny," she began, clenching her jaw against the fear, the godsdamned _fear_ , rising in her chest. "Every slave, every guard, every person that so much as set foot in this wing—"

Before Svaia could finish her thought, something loud and heavy struck the ground. She whirled, she and Nia drawing their blades at the same moment. But… there was nothing. Nothing that hadn't been there before. 

Svaia almost made for the door, thinking it something out in the foyer, until Nia lightly touched her arm, and pointed. "The closet," she whispered. 

Of course it was the fucking closet. Svaia shook her head to clear it. Fucking hell. She half hoped there was some hidden assassin, if only she could spill some blood of her own and clear this terrible dread from her mind. As one, she and Nia advanced on the closet. 

"I thought you said you looked over the place," muttered Svaia, giving her blade an experimental swing. 

Nia shot her a grin that could only be described as sheepish. "Cursory only, Commander. I didn't want to steal your vengeance."

She couldn't help but snort, holding herself at the ready as Nia braced herself against the closet door, and threw it open. 

Nothing. 

Svaia huffed, sheathing her blade as she peered inside. As she would never bother owning such ridiculous amounts of extravagance, it was largely full of the queen's own items, blankets and rugs and tapestries. Things worth keeping, but not currently in use. A trunk lay in the center of the room, lid cracked open, exposing the royal silks inside. 

"Perhaps it had been improperly balanced?" Nia tried, as she too put her blade away. "Perhaps the perpetrators took some items as well, and did not place things in order."

Svaia pressed her lips together, attempting to ignore the hollow ache in her chest. She scanned the closet from top to bottom, eyes narrowed against the dim light, and noted a stack of similar trunks towards the back, twisted to the side. As if it had been shoved, causing its top most piece to tumble to the ground.

And it was at that very second that something moved. The two of them went dead still, as a mound of blankets began to writhe, squirming as though it were a live beast. 

Despite herself, Svaia grinned. It seemed she would get her wish after all.

"Commander," Nia warned. Svaia ignored her, lunging forward in a single movement and wrenching the blankets away.

What hid below was not an assassin or a thief, but Einri, blindfolded, gagged, and bound to a heavy trunk.

Svaia dove for him, yanking the blindfold from his eyes and tossing it away. Einri cringed from her touch, his squawk of panic muffled by the gag in his mouth. 

"Easy, easy," she whispered as she cupped his face in her hands, needing to prove to herself that this was real. "Easy Pet, easy, I've got you. You're okay."

Einri opened his eyes, squinting against the light of her room. Svaia examined the knot holding his gag in place, and scowled. It was some sort of scarf, tied so tightly that there was no way she was going to be able to undo it by hand.

"I need you to sit still, okay?" She said gently, holding her hand out towards her guard. "You're going to be fine. Nia, your dagger." 

Einri whimpered, eyes wide and pleading. "Easy," she soothed, taking the blade in hand. "Sit still so I can free you."

He squeezed his eyes shut, trembling as she wiggled her finger under the scarf and followed it with the knife. The sharp edge bit through the silk upon contact, and Svaia tore the scarf away. 

"Einri—"

Einri sobbed, tugging desperately on his bonds. "They took him! They took him, _they took him!"_

Svaia hushed him, the sound sharp and pointed. "Stop," she ordered, "Let me see. I can't help you if you panic."

He whined, "Mistress, Mistress…"

"Hush," she hissed, and peered at his wrists. The shackles were thin enough that they had torn through his skin, blood crusted up his wrists and the muscles shredded. She loosed a tight sigh, tugging gently on the cuffs. The trunk didn't so much as budge.

Einri cringed, biting on his bloodied lip. "Mistress…"

"What the fuck did you do to yourself?" Svaia grunted, "You damn near cut your own hands off!"

He whined, shrinking back. "I-I had to. He was—he was crying, screaming for me. I had to get away, I had to _help,_ but I… i couldn't." 

Swallowing the dryness of her throat, Svaia looked over her shoulder at Nia, the guard already inclining her head. 

"I've called for a doctor, Commander."

Svaia nodded. "Send for a metalworker as well. We'll need these cuffs broken open." 

"Yes Commander," said Nia, and vanished out of the bedroom. 

Turning back to Einri, Svaia settled onto her knees besides him. "I need you to help me, Pet. I need you to tell me what happened." 

Einri sniffled, his eyes red rimmed. "I tried to get to him," he cried, "I tried, Mistress, I tried. I swear this to you, I _tried._ "

Svaia brushed his hair from his brow, grimacing at the bruises that speckled his cheek and temple. "I believe you," she assured, "I do, Pet. But what happened? Who took Niven?" 

"I… I-I don't know who they are," Einri admitted, his voice broken and wet, "They came in as we—as we were getting ready to go to the kitchens."

"Who," Svaia pressed, "Who, Einri."

"I don't _know_ ," he wept, "Th-they came in with a laundry cart, and I was going to strip the bed to-to help, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground." 

"How many?"

"F-four? No, five. Five, I think, Mistress." 

Svaia took a deep breath, drawing Einri to her chest. "Are you injured?" She breathed. 

"N-no, I don't think so," he whispered, "Besides my—my wrists. And my head hurts."

_No surprise there._

"How long ago did this happen?" She questioned softly, "This is important, Pet. How long were you locked in here?"

"I tried—tried to count, but I c-couldnt really focus," he said meekly, "I don't know. Maybe a-maybe a half hour?"

Svaia grit her teeth, pressing her brow to Einri's temple. Whomever it was was likely long gone by now. Their duties had been scheduled for no more than twenty minutes ago. Niven and his captors may have very well been out of the palace before anyone knew there was anything amiss.

"You shouldn't have struggled so hard," she muttered, looking over his wrists once more. 

"He's my responsibility," Einri rasped, "He's my Third. It's my duty to look after him. I was trying—I was trying to get to him, trying to _help_ him, but I couldn't. I… I couldn't get to him."

Svaia hushed him, looking up at Nia when she returned. 

"They should be here soon," she said softly, "Is he—"

"He's fine," Svaia bit out, "He'll be fine. I want the palace on lockdown."

Nia frowned, narrowing her eyes. "They're likely already out."

"I don't care," she hissed, "Lock it all down. I don't want anyone coming in or out until we know for sure."

Her guard hesitated for a moment, her dark eyes trailing over them. Then she touched her fingers to her brow, and then her heart. "As you command, consider it done."

  
  
  


He woke to hands. 

Hands on his body, his clothes, in his hair. Niven whined around the rag in his mouth, wincing at the sharp throbbing in his head. He squirmed, hands bound behind his back. Through the blindfold over his face, he could see light, and figures moving. 

His thoughts were slow, sluggish, as though he were waking from a century long nap. The bed beneath him was hard, the sheets stinking like sweat— and something worse. Groaning, Niven tossed his head, stretching out his bound legs. 

Where was Einri? Where was his Mistress? 

_"It looks like he's coming around."_

Niven froze at the sound of the voice, a man's, from his right. It wasn't any man he recognized. 

And then a woman's, sleek and lovely, in the language of the Isles. _"Untie his hands."_

He cringed, writhing away from the hands that rolled him over, onto his belly. 

"Where—where am I?" Niven choked, tongue fat and heavy in his mouth. 

The swipe of cold metal, and his hands sprung free. Niven shuddered, breath catching. 

"Where am I?" He asked again, panic blooming in his chest, "Where is my—my mistress—"

The woman shushed him, her hand warm on his shoulder. These clothes—itchy, rough. Nothing like the silk and linens of the palace. 

_"Rest, my Escel, you're safe now,"_ came that tender, feminine voice, and every muscle in his body went taut. 

_Escel. Escel._

His legs too were cut free, and Niven was gently turned onto his back. 

_"Thank you, Misen_ . _Please grant us our privacy."_

The man, Misen, made a quiet noise of deference. There were footsteps, the hiss and squeak of a door. The bed shifted, a weight on his side. Niven whimpered, clenching his jaw. These weren't his people, these weren't his mistress' people. None of them would ever, ever, dare call him—

_"Escel," that voice said again, solemnly, fondly. "Oh Escel, what has she done to you?"_

The gag was tugged free by a pair of gentle hands, and then the blindfold fell too. The light was dim, but it was enough that Niven groaned, shielding his eyes. 

_"You look so different,"_ said the woman, _"Especially with the hair, but I suppose that can't be helped."_

_Hair?_

He touched his head, felt the water dripping down his neck. And one his hand, when he managed to look, was some sort of… black ink. 

_"I hope you can forgive this,"_ the woman said wryly, _"We needed to help you remain unrecognizable."_

At least, Niven managed to look at her. 

His thoughts screeched to a halt, blood turning leadened. He blinked. Blinked again. 

She smiled at him, her eyes a silver blue. Her hair was odd, dyed a muddy brown, but that face… the face of his mother. Of _their_ mother.

"Ira," he whispered. The name burned like frost on his tongue, the tears in his throat icing over. 

_The second born daughter of the false-queen, Ira of Renvassa._

_"Hello, Escel,"_ she said _,_ in a voice just like their mother's, _"I've missed you."_

Niven opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, "This isn't real."

Her lips curling it a smirk, Ira ran a hand through her hair. _"Trust me, it's real. It's hard for me to believe as well. I've been trying to get you out for months."_

"M-months," he echoed, aghast, "But you… you're supposed to be dead!"

_"Well,"_ Ira snorted, _"the Nightbringer isn't as thorough as she thinks she is."_

At her name, Niven swallowed, eyes shooting to the door. They were in some sort of… inn room. A bed, some sort of dresser, and a few candles to light the dark space. 

"Where are we?" He croaked. It was the only thing he could think to ask. 

_"A tenement on the far side of the city. The guards tend not to patrol out here, so we're about as safe as we can be in the city."_

"You can't—you shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here," Niven rasped, lurching to his feet. The room wobbled, his vision squirming. He pressed a hand to his brow, fighting to keep his feet beneath him. "I need to get home, I need to go, I need to _go—"_

Ira took him by the hand, her touch rough and calloused. _"You don't have to go anywhere," she said, "Escel, brother, you're safe. I promise, I_ promise."

"No, no, I can't," he squeaked, "I have to get back, I have to get home before she notices. She's going to be—she's going to be livid."

_"Sit back down,"_ she said, _"She can't reach you here, I give you my word."_

Niven yanked on her hand, trying to pry off her grip. "I need to get home! You don't understand, I need to go, I need to go _now."_

Ira sighed, rising to her feet. Niven flinched, staggering back against the wall. She sighed, gently chiding, " _Escel, you should rest. The extraction was far more difficult than we intended. You need to sleep."_

"What did you even give me?" Niven croaked, "What—what happened?" 

She pulled on his hand, and Niven was helpless but to let her ease him back onto the bed. _"You were fighting too much,"_ Ira murmured, _"We needed to subdue you. I'm sorry. I hope you can forgive us for that, and the gag and blindfold. We couldn't risk you running away before you were safe."_

Tears welled behind his eyes, his throat going tight. . "I need—I need to get back. Please let me go back before they know I'm gone."

Ira grimaced. _"... I'm afraid they already know. The palace is in lockdown. Has been for a few hours now."_

Niven pressed his hands to his face, gritting his teeth. His last memory was of Einri, of screaming for him. His last memory of the palace was Einri's desperate, panicked face. Of his outstretched hand. 

_Please_ , he begged, _please, please keep him safe. This isn't his fault, it's not his fault._

_"You don't have to keep up with the Marden, you know,_ " said Ira, carefully teasing, _"I promise that you're safe. She can't touch you here."_

Niven just shook his head. "Please let me go home," he whispered, a tear streaking down his cheek. "Please, I won't tell them about you, I promise. I need to go home." 

He looked at her then. Ira's face was a mask of sadness. In Marden, she said, "I think you need to rest. You have had a very hard day, you will be better off tomorrow."

"Oh gods," he whispered, "Oh my _gods_. I'm dead, she's going to rip me apart. She's going to find me, and she's going to rip me apart." 

Ira sighed. "She won't, Escel. We left no tracks. I won't let her touch you, I give you my word." 

Niven tucked his face into his knees, a sob ripping through him. He flinched at Ira's touch, whimpering as she took his hand and squeezed. 

_"I love you,"_ she whispered, _"I love you so much, Escel. Please rest."_

"My—my brother, my First," he sputtered, "What happened to him? Is he safe?" 

Ira inclined her head, brow creasing. "The Nightbringer's pet? He was fine, last I heard. He—" she hesitated, slipping back into her mother language, " _fought like a beast_. I'm not sure what they did with him, but he wasn't harmed."

_Maybe not by you,_ Niven thought bitterly. 

"... He cared for you?" She said softly. 

Niven nodded. "Yes. H-he was… we were brothers. He looked out for me, he tried to… tried to keep me safe." 

"That would explain his fight," his sister mused. Her mouth drawing into a tight line, she pressed a hand to her heart. "I hope he will not suffer for our actions, then."

_Oh, he will_. 

"Why won't you let me go back?" Niven asked, voice cracking. 

"Because you are my brother, my kin," Ira breathed. Her eyes were liquid as she turned them to him. "You are all I have left. I couldn't allow you to rot in that place, under that woman." 

"My—my mistress," he said without thinking. 

Ira scowled. "Your captor. Feel no shame, my brother. This is normal, everything you're feeling is normal. But she is not something to worship. She is but a hellspawn to burn."

Niven winced, his hand coming to his chest, to the burns beneath his clothes. Ira blached, drawing up straight. 

"I apologize," she said quickly, "I apologize. Forget my words, Escel. Please, rest."

"I c-can't," he whispered, "I can't. I need to—I need to go home."

Ira's eyes were sad, as she rested her hand on his knee. 

_"I love you, Brother,"_ she whispered, "I will be on watch outside your door tonight. If you have need of me, just shout. Goodnight." 

Over his knees, Niven watched her leave, the light of the hall flooding the room before vanishing. He almost called out for her, almost yelped out for her to stay. He didn't want to be alone here, in this unfamiliar place, waiting for the Queen-Commander to hunt him down like a dog. 

There was no window for him to gaze out of, no way for him to gauge the time of day. The room was so, so empty. 

He hadn't been alone since the kingdom's falling, not truly. Before that, his days were full of tutors and not much else. As the fourth born son, he was of little use to anyone. His brothers were all much older, Ira being the only one anywhere near his age. The only person that paid him much mind was his mother, and his father before that. When his mistress claimed him, there was always someone. It was one of the small mercies he enjoyed. Einri, Neida, his mistress. One of the sisters, another slave. There was always, _always,_ someone around. But now as Niven sat in the empty room, his thoughts on the palace miles away, he remembered what it was like to feel truly alone. 

He lay there for the entire night, on top of the itchy sheets and the flat pillow, listening. The tenement was alive with thousands of sounds. Footsteps up and down the hall, the chatter of voices below him. Outside, gaggles of drunken women shouted and laughed among one another. No matter how hard he tried, Niven couldn't fall asleep. His world was too loud, his bed too empty. 

Every once in a while, a shadow would pass in front of his door, and Niven's entire body would go rigid. Thinking that she had found him, that she had come to burn him once more. The fact that each and every time he heard Ira's voice wasn't much comfort. 

He tossed and turned, the thoughts in his head alive and humming like angry bees. Mistress had to be so utterly disappointed in him. Even if Einri tried to defend him, she wouldn't believe it. Niven was a troublemaker, no matter how hard he tried. He was never quick enough, never demure enough, never quiet enough. Nothing like Einri, whom their mistress trusted with her life. If this had happened to Einri, their Mistress would have known. She would have torn the entire country apart just to rescue him, because she would have _known_ he didn't leave willingly. 

But for Niven, he knew she wouldn't be certain. She did not trust him very much at all. Always questioning his whereabouts, demanding to know to whom he had spoken. She was always anticipating his betrayal, his escape, and then it had happened. 

He knew his mistress was looking for him. He knew people had likely been killed over this, knew that Einri was likely striped with red lashes and abandoned on the cold floor. And he also knew that if she found him, it was not because she worried for him. He was her property, and he was on the run. Any excuses would be met with fists and blood.

And so each time someone moved outside of the door, he held his breath, fists clenched at his sides, praying that it wasn't her. Praying that he was safe, that Ira had meant what she said. And yet…

And yet the bed was too empty. He was too exposed, too alone. Mistress tormented him, ridiculed him, broke his bones and his spirit. And yet she kept him safe. She shielded him from her sisters, who no doubt would have devoured him alive. She fed him, clothed him, pet his hair and kissed his tear-stained cheeks. 

He wasn't accustomed to thinking of her like an enemy. Like a true danger. 

It made his stomach churn.

  
  


Morning came, signaled by sunlight streaming through the slats of the wooden building, and an increase in chatter. Niven flinched as someone knocked on the door. 

"C-come in?" He called, uncertain. Ira strode in, a tray of food in hand, trailed by a man Niven didn't recognize. 

"Good morning, Escel," his sister said with a bright smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Did you sleep well?"

Niven blinked, and wiped at his face. "Fine, I guess," he rasped. 

The man was staring at him, an edge to his light eyes. Niven couldn't help but shrink, averting his gaze to the floor. 

Ira set the tray in his lap, some bread and sausage, as she said, "Escel, meet Misen. He was with us last night." 

"Nice to meet you," Niven said, his heart stuttering. Misen dipped his head, murmuring something to Ira that he couldn't hear. 

Ira grimaced, nodding slightly. _"Yes, we need to send word. Tell everyone to be on high alert, we can't afford any missteps."_

Misen left without so much as a word towards him, vanishing from the room and closing the door behind him.

Ira made a face. "I was hoping he would be able to show you the tenement today, but evidently he is not… available." She pushed the plate towards him, sitting on the desk of the bed. "You should eat, you're practically a corpse." 

Niven picked up one of the slices of bread, still staring at the door. "I take it he doesn't like me," he said in a small voice. 

Ira frowned. "It isn't that. It's just…. Things are going to be tense for a while. It's the natural course for these things." 

"Tense?" Niven echoed. 

"It's nothing worth fretting over," Ira breathed, reaching out to brush his hair from his face. Niven couldn't keep from pressing his cheek to her palm, relishing in the kind, tender touch. 

Even if she was entirely foreign to him now. 

"You've kept your soft heart, I see," she mused softly, "It seems the Nightbringer failed to corrupt that part of you."

The sound of his mistress' title made his throat tight. Niven quickly stuffed his mouth with his food, if only to save face. Considering the amount of contempt in every word, Niven suspected Ira would not take well to him falling apart.

They were both silent as he ate, the heavy air only occasionally interrupted by the clamber of people tearing through the hallway outside. The food was bland and tasteless, the bread stale and dry, the sausage chewy and metallic tasting. He wasn't sure what he expected. Perhaps he had grown spoilt on the rich, luxurious palace meals.

Still, he didn't dare complain. Instead, he just kept his head, trying to ignore his sister's worried looks. He could tell there was something on her mind, and yet he didn't want to press. For his own selfish reasons, perhaps. Or perhaps he knew it just wasn't his place. They hadn't been close before, and they certainly weren't close now. 

When he was finished, Niven wiped his mouth with his hand and set the tray aside. "Thank you," he managed, "Is there a bathing room I could visit, please?" 

There was, as it turned out, on the story below. Ira led him there with her hand at his back, ordering him not to draw attention to himself. That, at least, was an easy task. And blessedly, the bathroom was empty when they arrived, and Ira ushered him inside with a warning not to use too much water. 

In truth, he was surprised there was any water at all. While most of the city was connected to the local plumbing system, poorer districts weren't as unanimously reliable. Frankly, he was surprised this place even had a bathing room. He examined the grimy, mold-speckled sink, wrinkling his nose, and the calcified sink fixtures. He turned them both on, the knobs squeaking their protest. Water spurted forth, stinking like copper and practically beige. He ran his hand under the stream, and grit his teeth. No hot water.

Niven cursed himself for the disgust that curdled through him. Even as little more than a housepet, he was still half spoilt to death. He forced himself to ignore it, splashing the frigid water across his face and neck. With any luck, it would clear his mind. . . 

Things were still… muddled, cloudy and uncertain. Each of his thoughts waxed and waned like the moon, coming and vanishing into one another. Holding onto an idea was like holding onto a slimy, wriggling fish: Impossible, and not worth the effort. It likely wasn't the drug anymore. Just his own broken mind. 

He glanced up at the dingy, cracked mirror, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Where his hair had once been a snowy blond and chin length, it was now ink black and cropped close to his scalp. He ran a hand through it, scowling at what was now missing. His face was far worse, though. Red and swollen from crying, there would be no chance of him being recognized when his cheeks were three times their normal size. 

He relieved himself, washed his hands once more, and rested his palms on the wooden counter. It squelched under his hand, the grain shifting and splitting. Halfway rotten. And the whole damn room stank of human bodies and misery. Or maybe that was just him projecting. 

Biting the inside of his cheek, Niven ran his thumb over one of the cracks on the mirror's surface. They spiderwebbed out from a spot in the center, as though someone had stuck it and never bothered to replace it. 

Niven took a deep breath, tracing the crack from its origin to the mirror's edge. He couldn't go home. That much he knew. If he went, Mistress would surely kill him. It didn't matter how much he wanted to go, how much he missed her, how much—

He paused, throat bobbing. Did he actually want to return? Did he actually miss her? He pressed his free hand to his chest, feeling the burns, the heartbeat. 

Did he truly miss her? Or did he simply miss what she offered. Or, did he fear the repercussions of being pulled away, against his will or not. 

The latter two he could answer with a big fat _yes._ He missed the warmth of her room, the comfort of familiar walls overhead. He missed Einri most of all. Neida too. And godsdamn him, he was fucking petrified of being discovered. She would burn this building, and all its inhabitants, to the ground if he was discovered here. And Ira… 

He didn't want to think of what would become of his sister.

But… Did he want to go back? Did he miss _her?_

Niven hissed, snatching his hand away. A bead of blood welled on his thumbpad, a speckle of it on the mirror. He huffed, suckling on the wound to halt the bleeding. 

It didn't matter anyways. He didn't want to think about those things right now, not with the fog hanging over his head. 

Wiping his hands on his front, Niven took a deep breath and left the bathing room. He found Ira leaning against the wall, speaking in low tones to another woman. Her eyebrows jumped as she noticed him, and that weak smile appeared back on her face.

_"Everything well?"_

He nodded, wetting his lips. "Yes, thank you." 

Something flickered in her eyes, but she didn't comment. She gestured to her companion, a petite woman with silver eyes. "Brother, this is Sisa. She's a friend of mine."

He noted the lack of his name, gaze flicking to the stairs at the end of the corridor. Not everyone in this tenement knew about her then, about him. Misen must, and perhaps this Sisa. 

Niven cleared his throat and bowed his head. "The pleasure is mine." 

Ira grimaced. "Escel…" 

Sisa offered him a gentle smile. "It's good to see you in better condition than yesterday. The black suits you." 

Niven blinked, confused, but Ira gestured to her hair. "Oh," he said quickly, "Y-yes, thank you. Um…" 

"Sisa is my Second," Ira said in a low voice.

"Oh!" Niven said again, unable to help himself, "I had a Second, or—I was Third, and—"

Ira grabbed his arm, warning, "Brother." 

Niven froze, mouth going dry. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

Ira shushed him, clasping his hand in hers. "It's okay. Come, we should get you back to your room. _Sisa, please keep me updated,"_ she added over her shoulder, as she tugged Niven back down the hall. 

"Updated?" He whispered, "Are things… bad?"

"The Nightbringer lords over this city with an iron fist. When she is disturbed, we all suffer," muttered Ira, "It's just more… of the same. Don't worry yourself with that." 

Something about that… irked him. They spoke of her as though she was this great, insurmountable figure, when she was really just a woman.

"Yes Ma'am," he murmured. 

When they were back in the bedroom, Ira set about lighting a few more candles. "You know you don't have to talk like that anymore, right?"

Niven looked at her, startled. "I-I'm sorry?"

She sighed, the planes of her face awash in warm orange light. "You are a prince. You don't have to call anyone 'ma'am'."

"It's polite," he protested, voice small. 

"It's slavelike," Ira shot back. Niven winced, hugging his arms around himself. 

_I am a slave_ . The thought came, hot and sharp, from the dark depths of his mind. _I am a slave, I have been for months. You cannot rip my flesh from my body and hope to find a normal man beneath._

The words sat on his tongue, cold, venomous. _I am a slave. I had found peace within my life, I had found some semblance of meaning, and you think you can just wrench that from my hands?_

But he said none of that. There were no words he could say that would convince her of any of that. Instead, Niven just murmured, "I'm sorry."

"I think you need some sleep," Ira sighed, "Please, try." 

Niven let her usher him onto the bed, but didn't immediately lie down. 

"She wasn't that bad, you know," he said distantly, "She wasn't." 

"Escel," she murmured, "Please."

Niven bit his lip, saying nothing more. 

  
  
  


The days crawled on. Niven slept through most of them. He was discouraged from leaving his room unless it was to use the bathing room, and even then it had to be quick and quiet. The rebellion was not well liked, he'd learned. It was all but dead after the executions earlier into the Nightbringer's reign. They needed to keep things quiet. Or something. It was difficult to care.

Two weeks came and went, only punctuated by Ira visiting him occasionally. She would usually bring him food twice a day, linger while he ate, and then he would be left alone once more. No one bothered him. No one bothered _with_ him. Not Misen, not Sisa. The emptiness yawned on around him, endless and dark. Was this to be his life? A dark room, alone, staring up at the ceiling for hours and hours? Perhaps the rest of his life? 

The way these people talked about his mistress grew increasingly more irritating. She may as well have been some dark goddess, blood and sinew in her teeth. He knew better than to contradict them, but gods be damned, he wanted to. They always called him by that name, _Escel._ He'd feared it at first, and then he didn't quite mind it. That soft reminder of who he was. Or who he had been, rather. But as every day passed, marked only by rising sun and his endless loneliness, as he felt the bond between him and his sister stretching thinner and thinner, he'd grown to despise it. He'd take a thousand white-fires if it meant they stopped fucking calling him that. 

It wasn't his name any longer. That boy had died the second he took his fire. Escel was gone, dead and burned to ash. He was Niven, _Niven_ . It was the name he'd earned, the title he'd been awarded. It didn't matter if he spent the rest of his life rotting in this dark room. At least then he would have his _name._

That thought had arisen at some point during the first week, in the depths of that empty, dark room. No matter how desperately he tried to force it from his mind, he should have known right then what it would lead to. 

He had no cloak to hide behind, no boots or jacket. Still, he had to wait until night. Any guard or wandering woman could think him some unclaimed man and snatch him up. But he didn't want to think about what Ira might say if she caught him. 

He would just have to move quickly, and quietly. He was good at that. He's learned how to do that, during his time with his mistress. Move quickly, move quietly, and things would be easier. Granted, he'd never… never had to go so far. The southern district was miles from home, across the river that separated the city. 

Niven considered this, in the darkness of his room. Away from the sunlight, away from his friends, his brothers, his mistress, his home. Ira may have thought she was rescuing him, but what did she think she was doing? Putting him away while she did—whatever it was that she did during the day. She never even fucking told him anything. 

Beyond all of this, he knew he should be grateful. Ira was the last bit of blood he had left on this world. Any normal person would be grateful. Any normal person would be relieved. Escel would have been. 

But he wasn't normal. And he had stopped being Escel a long time ago. 

If Ira had gotten to him months ago, perhaps even right up until before his burning, he might have been able to adjust. But something had changed in him then, and the weeks after. He couldn't explain what it was, or what specifically had happened. Or rather, he could, he just couldn't express _why_ it mattered. Mistress had been kinder to him, she had taken care of him just as Einri swore she would. She had shown a side of herself Niven hadn't thought existed. 

He wanted to go home. Perhaps that made him pathetic, perhaps that made him broken and stupid and weak. Niven didn't care. He just wanted to go home. 

He would be going home. He just didn't know what he was going to say to Ira. There was no way he could tell her, and yet… to just leave? Without notice? After all she had risked for him? 

He would find something to say. He would find something to clear the air between them, so she would know that what followed was not her fault. She was trying to help him, but she had become a captor in her own right. If she didn't want to take him home, he would have to make it there on his own.

He sat up as someone knocked on the door. 

"Come in," he said, his voice far weaker than he meant it to be. Ira came in, her form familiar to him now. She was his only company these last few weeks, and despite himself, he'd almost grown to… resent her for it. 

He swallowed, pushed those feelings down. He would not leave with hate in his heart, not when he would likely never see her again. This was his sister, his blood. She was trying to help him. It was not her fault that he was broken beyond repair. It was not her fault that he had found kin elsewhere.

Ira hummed as she sat on the bed, close enough to his toes that Niven could feel her warmth. She set the tray on his lap, kicking off her shoes. _"Fuck, I'm starved,"_ she muttered. Niven smiled a bit, and shifted so that they could both eat in comfort. Two plates of bread, meat, and cheese, two glasses of water. 

As they ate, the quiet low and buzzing between them, Niven focused on memorizing her face from the corner of his eye. She looked so much like their mother. He could see even a bit of Father in her as well, with her sharp nose and thin brow. His mistress had destroyed every painting and statue of the royal family during her first week. Looking at Ira was the last chance he would have to remember all of their faces. 

She may have been the second born daughter, but she was fifth in the line of royal children. Chewing on a mouthful of chicken, Niven reminded himself of their names, using Ira as a reference point for what they must have looked like. 

_Eris, Andres, Nadis. Sera, Ira._

Mother and Father, _Elyss, Imes._

He closed his eyes, taking a sip of water to sooth the tightness in his throat. They were gone. Ira may live, but she would be gone for him as well, the moment he returned to the palace. And though the thought burned and ached, he did not rescind it. Escel had five siblings; Niven only had a brother. Not of blood, but bond. He and Einri were infinitely closer than he'd ever been to his siblings, before all of this. 

He would be trading his hold on his siblings, on his name, on his life as it was and as it had been before, for his brother, and his mistress. What he was losing in numbers, he gained in bond. The ache of leaving everything behind was nothing compared to the ache of being away from home.

It was a good trade to make. 

_"You're staring."_

Niven flushed, averting his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "You just… you look a lot like Mother."

Ira smiled a bit, reaching out to cup his cheek. Her hand was warm, rough and calloused. He leaned into it, smiling at her in turn. 

"You look like Father," she said with a quiet laugh, "You have his eyes."

Niven loathed how his heart ached. And yet he closed his eyes, let the burn of his grief wash over him. When he left this room, this place… when he left the southern district, when he crossed that bridge, he would forget it all. He would _make_ himself forget. But for now, he just let himself feel it. 

Quietly, he said, "You should get out of the city."

Ira gave him an odd look, "I'm sorry?"

"You should get out of the city," he repeated, "You and your friends. You should leave the city. The longer you're here, the more danger you're in."

"Escel, we can't just _leave_."

"Of course you can," Niven replied, "The rebellion is barely functional as it is. You should leave, attempt to regroup elsewhere." 

Ira snorted, taking a sip of her water. "Is this your way of asking me to move you out of the city?"

Niven smiled a bit. "I just think it would be best if you put as much distance between Renvassa and your movement. All you're doing while you're here is waiting for someone to catch on."

Her lips drawing into a tight line, Ira dipped his head. "I cannot just give up on our home."

"And what happens if you are caught?" Niven asked, voice low. "What happens to the rebellion if you fall? You have a handful of supporters still alive, do you think they could continue this movement without you?'

Ira averted her eyes, as Niven rested his hand on her arm. "Most of the city supports the—the Nightbringer and her beliefs. You cannot make anymore headway than you already have."

"... I know," she whispered, "I know. But I cannot leave. It feels like failure."

Niven took her hand, gently squeezing. "It isn't. It's simply… falling back. It's protecting yourself."

"And who protects the people of this city?" 

"Not you. Not if you're dead."

Ira swallowed, staring down at her plate. "She killed so many of my friends, Escel. She turned our people against us, weaponized their fear and turned it into a rat hunt." 

"I know," murmured Niven, gently thumbing the curve of her hand.

"Do you know how many of the men that fought with us became slaves?" She whispered, "How many of my women were spiked on the castle walls?"

"And how many more will fall if you stay?"

Ira was quiet for a long moment, before she eventually said, _"The Nightbringer is a beast straight from the depths of hell. I hope she rots."_

Niven bit his lip against the automatic defense on his lips. She was a monster to them, they had never known her as anything else. 

"You may rot first, if you stay," Niven whispered. 

Her eyes flickered to him, and then away. They fell into silence as they finished their meals, and before Ira could withdraw to father the dishes, Niven grabbed her hand once more.

"I love you," he said, ignoring the way his eyes burned with the words. 

Ira gave him an odd look. "Is everything alright, brother?"

"Yes, I—yes, everything is fine," he said with a little smile, "I just… I just wanted you to know."

Ira smiled in response, and leaned over to rest his brow against his. _"I love you too, Brother,"_ she whispered.

There was a glisten to her eyes as she rose, stacking the plates and carrying them out. Niven wondered if she knew what he was planning, if she had any inclining of why he wanted her to leave the city. It didn't matter if she did just yet. She would soon. When she came to see him tomorrow morning and found him gone, she would know. He just hoped she would understand. 

He settled back onto the stiff mattress and stared at the ceiling. He counted the black spots of mold, the rings of water damage among the rafters. Soon he would be home. Soon he would be among his brother and his mistress. Soon things would be right. 

He just hoped his sister heeded his warnings. 

  
  
  


There were no clocks on the wall, or anywhere nearby, but Niven had learned the routine of the tenements. The walls shook and the floors vibrated with noise from whatever was going on in the main lobby well into the evening. Then there was the patter of footsteps, the softening of voices, as the people retreated to their respective rooms. 

He waited well beyond that, until the only sound was the building shuddering against the wind, before he rose from bed. He would have an excuse up until the floor below, when he passed the bathing room, but after that he would have nothing to say if Ira or one of her friends caught him. He would just have to play dumb, or maybe just run as fast as he could. 

Slowly, he descended the stairs, clinging to the wall to minimize any creaking. He made it to the second story landing with a quiet sigh of relief. Just one more story, and then he could find the door and bolt. He had to squint to locate the next set of stairs, the corridor illuminated by a single oil sconce on the wall. Balanced on the balls of his feet, Niven shuffled down the set of stairs. There was no railing, but the way was narrow and steep enough that he had to brace his arms to keep from tumbling down. 

The first floor was perhaps the nicest space he had come across in the building, with a counter for drink and food, a few tables and wooden benches arranged around the space. He held his breath as he walked through the room, towards the single lone door on the far wall. There were a few children’s toys scattered around the floor, a wooden pull horse and a few blocks. It hurt his heart to imagine a child living in a place like this, or anyone really. This place with a rotten bathroom and holes in the ceiling. He knew his mistress had made advances in caring for children orphaned by her takeover, or rather her ministers had on her behalf, but he didn’t know of any assistance offered to those that still had a guardian, but had lost nearly everything. 

He would have to find a way to mention it to her. Or rather, he would mention it to Einri and he could broach the subject. Niven suspected he would not be in any position to ask for mercies leveraged against his people.

The door handle was cold and well worn in his hand. Niven flinched at the loud grind of the lock shifting out of the mortise. Over head, the ceiling groaned, and he froze. The patter of footsteps. He tracked them, heart hammering, as they moved across the upper floor. Hinges groaned, and he heard the hiss of running water. His sigh was audible, every muscle in his body going limp. Just the bathing room. _Just the bathing room._

He opened the door, twisting the knob oh so slowly to keep it from squeaking, and the unmistakable night wind kissed his face. Tentatively, Niven stepped a foot beyond the landing, onto the rain-slicked cobble of the street. Gritting his teeth, Niven slid the door shut behind him. He leaned against the door, not even daring to breathe, as he twisted the knob back into place, and let go. A long minute passed. So impossibly long. He counted the seconds, staring at the onyx sky. 

Nothing. Only the sound of water running down the storm drain. Swallowing, Niven stepped away from the door, taking note of his surroundings. He was on some sort of side street, an alley maybe, with similar doors lining the way towards a larger street. 

Ducking below windows, Niven padded further down the road. Not even halfway, he hissed, staggering against the wall, and brushed a shard of glass from his foot. He glared at the welling blood, and had to bite back a whimper as he forced himself to put weight on it. He could rest when he got home. Not to be deterred, Niven pressed onto the main road, and twisted to catch any sort of hint as to where he was. Deep in the southern district, that was what he gathered. No sign of the palace on the horizon, or even any guards. Deep, deep in the southern district then. 

Hugging himself against the cold wind, Niven peered up at the sky, at the moon. He would just have to head north, and hope for the best. 

Glancing at his feet, Niven could only swallow. He was going to end up with bloodied feet by the time he made it to the palace, _if_ he made it there. A lone man wandering the streets at night was prime for attack by any lurking women. Even a guard would likely abandon her post for a quick rump in an alley. But….

Not if they knew who he was. Not if he approached them first. The women were cruel, but they all swore an oath to remain loyal to the Queen-Commander. If they suspected a man was their commander's missing pet, they would be obligated to bring him before her. 

Niven slipped into the shadows against one of the buildings, watching the streets for any movement. It was a stupid plan. Very few of the guards assigned to the southern district had any honor to speak of, that was why they were put in the southern district. No one gave a shit what you did there. They were just as likely to laugh in his face, take him for themselves, and _then_ deposit him in the palace dungeons to be confirmed or not. It was something he would prefer to avoid. He wriggled his toes against the wet stone, breathing in the stench of the city, and decided that he didn’t rightly care. As long as it got him to the palace, they could use him as a party favor. Their punishment for touching the Nightbringer’s property would be well worth it anyways.

He would just have to make a judgement call, and try to find a guard that looked the least likely to assault him.

_It doesn’t matter,_ he told himself, ignoring the growing pit in his stomach, _It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter. Just get home. Just get_ home.

He limped down the road, leaning against the building for support. He just had to find a guard, and get home. 

_Just get home._

Over and over, he repeated it to himself. Just get home, just get home. That was all that mattered. He just kept an eye on the moon, and stayed aware of his surroundings. Just get home, just get home _alive._

He passed two pairs of guards. One set was very clearly drunk, singing a bawdy tune at the top of their lungs as they meandered around their assigned patrol. The second actually spotted him, and it took a single look at those hungry eyes for him to make a quick detour down the nearest alley. Thankfully, neither of them seemed inclined to chase their prey. 

It was when he was hovering in the shadows, still breathing heavy from his frantic getaway and rubbing at his wounded foot, did he spy another pair. Neither of them were drunk, and neither of them scanned the streets with a predator’s gleam in their eyes. More than that, though, there was something familiar about them. One of them in particular. Something about her posture, the way she wore her dark hair. 

“Edda?” he blurted, before he could stop himself. Niven clamped his hands over his mouth as the guards whirled, hands on their weapons.

“Who goes there!” demanded the one he didn’t know. 

But the other one… Edda, the guard that patrolled most often outside of his mistress’ suite. What the fuck was she doing here?

_Demoted,_ his brain supplied, _she was demoted._

“Show yourself,” Edda ordered, in her thick Keurr accent. 

Niven swallowed, his breath catching. _Please, fucking hell, please give this to me. Let me have this, please._

He jolted from the shadows, both of the women flinching backwards.

“Edda,” he choked, the relief rushing through him like lightning. He presented his hands and sunk to his knees. The second guard stepped forward, grip tightening on her weapon.

Edda swore, arm flinging out to keep her companion at bay. “Niven?”

He groaned, muscles sagging. _“Yes,”_ he rasped, “Yes, gods yes.”

Edda surged for him, grabbing him by the hands and wrenching him to his feet, “Where the hell have you been? Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?”

Niven shrunk away at her tone, squeaking at the force of her grip. “I-I’m sorry, I-I didn’t-- it’s not my--” he sputtered, panic bleating through him. 

“Oh, your _hair_ ,” Edda gasped, “What did you do to it?”

It was then that Niven realized he was foolish for ever thinking they might have placed the blame elsewhere. He should have known better, shouldn’t have even bothered to hope. After what happened with Einri and the assassins, they probably thought this was some sort of organized effort. They probably thought Niven had gone entirely willingly, and why wouldn’t they?

His shoulders hunching, Niven swallowed the lump in his throat. He hated the way everything in him buckled, but he’d been so, so hopeful. He’d convinced himself Mistress had faith in him. He should have known better, he’d never given her a reason to think of him as anything more than trouble.“I-I’m sorry,” he squeaked, “I-I’m really, really sorry. Please, please take me home.”

“You’re scaring him, Edda,” murmured the other guard.

Edda shot her companion a glare, but her grip softened a bit. She brushed some of his hair from his face, Niven cringing as her hand came near. Edda sighed, taking him by the chin and staring at his face. He averted his eyes, wiped his face. 

“Are you hurt?” she asked softly. 

Niven shook his head, and then shuffled his feet. “I-I stepped on some glass,” he whispered. 

Edda scoffed, looking at his feet, “What the hell did you think was going to happen, running through the streets without any shoes on?”

He didn’t know what to say to that. _They didn’t give me any shoes_ probably wouldn’t help.

“Please,” he sniffled, “Please just take me home. I-I’m sorry for any trouble I caused, I just want to go home.”

With a sigh, Edda wiped his cheeks. “No need for tears,” she said softly, “I shouldn’t have snapped at you, you’ve been through enough. Come, we’ll get you home.”

Niven nodded gratefully, licking his lips. “I’m really really sorry,” he said again, almost desperately, even though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was apologizing for. 

“Hush,” Edda chided, her expression no longer sharp and bitter. “Don’t fret, hon. We’ll get you home.”

He nodded another time, a shiver running through him. “Is she angry?” he whispered.

Edda and her companion shared an unreadable look. “Something like that,” said the other guard, as she offered him her hand, “But she’ll be happy to see you. Come, we need to get you back as soon as possible.”

  
  
  


Knelt on the ground, Niven stared at his hands. He couldn't stop trembling, the cold dungeon air pickling across his skin. He hadn't been surprised when they led him down here, into the darkness that haunted his dreams. At least they had left him with a little bit of light, a candle burning on the table just outside the cell. 

Niven swallowed, plucking at his hair. A pair of servants had scrubbed his scalp raw in an effort to get the dye out. From their grimaces, he could only assume that it hadn't been particularly successful.

Time dragged on, endless and miserable. Perhaps they meant to make him wait until morning, until his mistress roused on her own. He wouldn't be surprised. 

At least he was in better condition this time, than when he'd been in the dungeons prior. Niven shuddered, pushing those thoughts from his mind. It wasn't worth thinking about. Dread already curled through him, sitting heavy and cold in his stomach. Thinking about what had come before, in this place, would only make it worse.

He winced, shifting against the hard stones. No one would dare disturb the Queen-Commander from her sleep, not after everything that happened. Not unless they had a death wish, at least. _Fuck._ Pressing his hands to his face, Niven forced himself to breathe. He just needed to get through these next few days, and everything would be fine. Whatever punishment Mistress inflicted, whatever trials she demanded, he would suffer through without question. He would wait as long as she needed him to. He could be good, he could be patient. 

If only he could see her. 

Reluctantly, Niven withdrew from the ring of orange light, and crawled to the small pallet of hay in the corner of the cell. It must have been provided by Edda, no one else would have bothered. He owed her thanks. And an apology, for causing her demotion. What a far way to fall, from the Commander's trusted guard, to the outreaches of the city. She had every right to hate him. 

It wasn't necessarily his fault, but they had no reason to believe that. Perhaps they suspected the whole kidnapping had been for show. It didn't matter. They blamed him, it was his place to absorb it. Whether it was true or not. 

Closing his eyes, Niven hugged his knees to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut. The sooner he fell asleep, the sooner he could pay his penance. 

No more than a few seconds later did he hear the soft shuffle of footsteps. He sat bolt upright, heart in his throat, and waited. He counted each step, listening as they grew closer and closer and closer.

And then his mistress stepped into the ring of light, and everything in him went quiet. Awash in flickering golden light, her dark hair unkempt and coiled around her shoulders. Her eyes were still heavy lidded, the blue silk robe draped around her body doing little to hide the powerful, naked body beneath. Someone _had_ dared to wake her, and she hadn't even bothered making herself presentable. 

Niven held himself perfectly still, no more than prey before the yawning maw of some great beast. 

She grabbed the candle, the plate it sat on, and pulled a key from the robe's pocket. Niven jolted from the pallet, stumbling onto his knees and pressing himself low to the ground. He heard her chuckle, a tired rasp of breath. 

"You certainly took your time, Pet."

A shiver running down his spine, Niven pressed his brow to the tile. "I'm sorry," he whispered. 

The ring of light came closer, bathing his outstretched hands in its glow. His mistress hummed, the cell door banging shut behind her. "And what are you apologizing for?" 

"Everything," blurted Niven, "Everything, all of it. I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, Mistress."

A moment of silence, then, "So you are admitting it. You had a hand in this plot?"

His eyes squeezing shut, Niven wet his lips. "Does it even matter?"

"Of course it matters," she replied, amused, "I would prefer to know whether or not my pet is a traitor."

_Traitor._ It burned through him worse than any fire. It was acid, lightning. 

"I-I…" 

He tried. Godsdamn him, he really tried. But his lips refused to form the words. It was impossible to tell if she was toying with him, if she really cared at all. He didn't think he would be able to stand it if she was. 

He couldn't help the tears that came, sliding down his nose and dripping to the ground. He just wanted some fucking peace. Just a second where things weren't pulled so taut that he couldn't even breathe. 

"I'm sorry," he sniffled, "I-I just—I'm s-sorry. I don't—I-I can't—"

He stilled as she set the candle on the ground, all the air vacating from his lungs. 

All amusement had faded from her voice as she sat down before him and said, "I think you ought to tell me what happened."

Niven dared to lift his head, dared to look at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. His mistress offered him a small, tired smile, "I know you had no part in this. But I would like to know where you've been all these weeks."

His shock must have been evident, because she snorted. "Truly, Niven, did you honestly think I suspected you?"

"I… maybe," he croaked, averting his eyes. 

She let out a quiet sigh. "Even if I didn't believe Einri's testimony, I know you. I know you would never put him in the middle of something like that. You would never risk him taking my ire." 

Biting his lip, Niven quietly asked, "Is he hurt?" 

"The doctor said he had a minor concussion from the blow to his head, though it's plenty healed by now."

"... May I see him?"

It was a stupid question. Speaking out of turn got him smacked on a good day. Now, he wouldn't be surprised if she broke a finger or two. He just had to ask, just needed to… he didn't know what he needed. Perhaps he just needed to gauge her reaction, see how angry she truly was. 

But it must have been a very, very good day, because Mistress only sighed, drawing the robe up around her shoulders. "Soon. I need you to tell me what happened first." 

It was Einri's robe, he realized, noting the gentle silver embroidery around the edges, the black dyed lace at its hem. That made sense. Mistress had never bothered with robes of her own. She must have come down here in a hurry. 

Wetting his lips, Niven settled back on his knees. "I… I was taken," he said in a weak voice, "Some—some tenement in the southern district. I never got a name."

"Come here," she said gently. Niven blinked in surprise, and blinked again as she chuckled. "What, am I not allowed to _miss_ my boy? Come here."

Dumbstruck, Niven shuffled over to her, flinching only slightly as she wrapped him in her arms and pulled him in close.

He couldn't help but bury his face in the crook of her neck, mumbling, "You missed me?"

"On occasion," she said softly, her hand coming up to cup the back of his head. "You've been mine for months, I've grown used to your presence. Your absence was… unwelcome."

It was then that he understood why Einri loved her like he did. Why he worshipped her, adored her, revered her as he did. She was cruel, and wicked, and awful. But… she cared. In her own way. Somewhere, in her dark heart, she cared for them. For him. And yes, people had cared for him before. Mother and Father had doted on him, when they weren't busy, and his siblings had always looked out for him with an idle sort of fondness. But his life had been so empty, so lonely, save for those spare seconds. He'd never asked about Einri's life before all of this, but if it was anything like his, then Niven understood. 

They belonged to her. He and Einri, they weren't just some passing slaves in the hallway, something she claimed in name alone. They _belonged_ to her. She comforted them, fed and cared for them. Taking the pain, letting her toy with them, was their duty. And in turn, she took care of them. 

In the beginning, he'd thought it nothing more than a trauma bond. A desperate attempt at the mind to rationalize the abuses suffered by the body. And perhaps that was part of it. Perhaps Mistress was broken in her own right, with such a black cruelty in her heart. She cared for them in whatever way she could, in whatever way she was able to. Perhaps they were both broken, or perhaps this was the way things were always meant to be, and the world before was the one that was wrong. Perhaps all of this was normal, right, as it should have been. 

Niven didn't know yet, but in the end, did it really matter? Did either scenario really matter? Did any of it change what they had?

Things could be so much worse, he knew. Things _had_ been so much worse, before his fire. Before he'd accepted his place, before he'd properly been hers. Now he was, and though she may hurt him, harm him, Niven knew it was worth every tear, every drop of spilled blood. For the relief he felt in that moment, in the safety of his mistress' arms, was unlike any sensation he'd felt before. It was everything.

It was peace, it was safety, it was home. 

Fisting the front of her robe, Niven tucked himself under her chin, reveling in her warmth as she held him close. 

"Are you injured?" She murmured, breath warm. 

He shifted, showing her his foot, the bandage wrapped around it. "I stepped on some glass."

She ran her finger over the bandages, her pulse steady and even beneath his ear. "Did they harm you?"

Niven shook his head. He drank in her touch, her scent, her warmth. He had never experienced such… softness with her. It was something he'd witnessed often between her and Einri, but up until now he'd never experienced it himself. It was strange, knowing that she cared for him. For so many months, he'd thought her nothing but a reaper, death incarnate, and soon she would send him to the afterlife as she had all his kin. He'd thought he'd had a few months at most. But time kept going, and now here they were. It was difficult to reconcile this image, of her holding him so close, with the one from their first day together. Blade in hand, still drenched in his mother's blood. Ready to rip him apart with her teeth alone. 

Niven stopped thinking about it, vanishing those thoughts to the depths of his mind. It wasn't going to do any of them any good if he kept dwelling on the past. All that mattered was the here, the now, and the warmth of his mistress' touch. 

Her fingers dusting through his damp hair, she asked, "Did you tell them anything?"

Niven hesitated a second, mind ripping through every comment and conversation he'd made with his sister. "Like what?" He asked at length, voice small. 

Mistress raised a brow. "Anything… proprietary."

Slower this time, Niven shook his head, "N-No? I don't—I don't think so. If I did, it wasn't anything important." At her look of question, he rushed to add, "They weren't interested in any of that. They never even asked me anything. I wouldn't have told them anything anyways if they did, I promise!"

_Please believe me, please please please._

She nodded, shifting a bit. "And how did you get away?" 

Crumbling with relief, Niven all but slumped against her chest. 

"They didn't hold me particularly tightly," he whispered, almost breathless, "I… I suppose I must have made them think I wanted to stay away. I snuck away when everyone was sleeping."

His mistress withdrew slightly, her grip tight as she took him by the chin and tilted his head up. "So, you had your freedom?" 

Niven couldn't help the way he shivered under her touch, skin prickling with something not unlike fear. "Yes Mistress."

"And you chose to return?"

"Yes Mistress."

Her eyes narrowed, sharpening, "Why?" 

"I… I don't know," he said sheepishly, shrinking away at the tone of her voice. "It just… I don't know. It was lonely, and terrifying, and… it was the life I had left behind. I made peace with who I was, I had found the good in it, I was… I was almost… happy. I didn't want to abandon all of that." 

From the corner of his eye, Niven saw her smile, just the barest curl of her lips. "You're a good boy," she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. 

Niven could have groaned, tears springing to his eyes. He'd made the right choice, that much was clear. He'd made the right choice. 

"Come, Einri is going to weep like a child when he sees you," his mistress said, climbing to her feet. 

"You don't want to ask me anything else?" Niven blurted without thought. Immediately he smacked his mouth shut, eyes going wide. But Mistress only hummed, offering him a hand up as well. 

"Is there anything important that I need to know?" She asked gently.

He thought of Ira, his heart aching, and nodded.

"Is there anything pressing enough that you can't save it for tomorrow?"

They wouldn't know he was gone until tomorrow anyways. When he shook his head, Mistress took his hand in hers and pulled him to his feet. 

"Then it can wait. Come. I don't much enjoy losing out of my sleep."

Though the words were gruff, her touch was still soft as she led him from the dungeons. All the way into the warmth of the palace, to her suite, and to her bed. 

"Look who I found wandering our streets," Mistress cooed, as Einri blinked owlishly from his place on the bed, disturbed by the sound of the door. Niven stood there, uncertain, as their mistress discarded her robe onto a nearby chair. "In the bed you go," she snorted, taking him by the scruff of the neck and urging him forward. 

Needing no further encouragement, Niven crawled onto the bed. He could have wept as Einri, still mostly asleep, latched onto him as though his life depended on it. Mistress came next, tucking herself right up against his other side. Within a few breaths, Einri was dead to the world, while Mistress just stared at them, eyes glittering in amusement.

"He missed you, you know," she said softly, reaching over to brush some of Einri's hair from his face. "He was practically useless to me the first week. He was convinced it was his fault you were taken."

Niven frowned. "Why would he think that?"

"You know how he is," said his Mistress, drawing the covers over them. "His mind is fragile. It doesn't always work entirely right."

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Niven hooked an arm around Einri's shoulder, holding him close. 

"Get some sleep, Pet," Mistress said softly, combing her fingers through his hair, "We can discuss the rest of this tomorrow. Tonight, it's just sleep."

"Yes Mistress," he whispered. 

She kept petting him, nails gently scraping, until she too dozed off. 

Yes, Niven thought, as he closed his eyes at last, he'd made the right choice. Whatever came next, whatever pain and suffering and sadness came next, it would be worth it. 

It was all worth it. 


End file.
